Off script, p.1
Off Script, page 1
Off Script
L.L. Bartlett
Contents
Copyright
Description
Off Script
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
About the Author
Other Books by L.L. Bartlett
Copyright © 2016 by L.L.Bartlett
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For more information on LL.Bartlett’s books, check out her website: http://www.LLBartlett.com
ISBN: 978-1-940801-33-9
Created with Vellum
Description
It’s 1979. Before cell phones. Before computers. Before the World Wide Web. LA Detectives Rob Howard and Dan”Wally” Wallace solve crimes the old fashioned way; by relentless legwork. Multiple deaths on the lot of a movie studio look like your average murder-suicide. At least that’s what someone wants everyone to think. It takes dogged determination for Howard and Wallace to write off a Hollywood killer.
Off Script
By
L.L. Bartlett
Prologue
Martha Adams smoothed back her thin white hair, checking to make sure all the pins were securely in place along the back of her chignon. She gazed sadly at the withered face and red-rimmed, watery eyes reflected in the mirror; there was nothing she could do about that. A bitter depression filled her; aging was a wicked curse, especially when there was still so much more that needed to be done and so little time left.
“Don’t be morbid,” she reminded herself, and allowed herself a moment more to gather herself after the long morning, poring over lists of numbers.
She carefully recapped her bottle of prescription medicine and dropped it into her handbag. Checking her appearance one last time, she waddled back toward the office, still caught up in her own thoughts.
Entering the dingy office lobby, she replaced the key to the Ladies’ Room and started for her own desk. It was then she noticed the office door between the rooms was closed and angry young voices could be heard from behind it. Although technically half the office was her designated workspace and no one else should be using it. Perhaps the couple simply wanted privacy. Those two never seemed to get along, and now they were openly fighting. Unwilling to confront them, she put the thoughts out of her mind, determined not to listen to the argument. Besides, it wasn’t right butting into other people’s troubles.
Uncertain as to what to do in the meantime, Martha settled in the visitor’s chair to wait, set her purse down on the floor, and picked up a magazine and idly flipped through the pages. She looked up as the lobby door opened once again and Irene, the office supervisor, entered carrying her lunch on a Styrofoam tray. “What’s going on, Martha?” she asked.
Martha shrugged and put down the magazine just as a shot rang out. She practically leapt to her feet, but was too stunned to move further.
“Call security!” Irene said.
Martha stepped over to the nearest desk and grabbed the phone just as the door to the inner office burst open and the gun-wielding man stopped dead at the sight of the two women, as shocked as they were to be confronted by him.
Irene was the first to recover. “Oh my God!” she gasped. The body of her subordinate lay on the floor beyond the door.
The man never spoke, but suddenly recovered and charged at her, shooting her in the chest before she could say another word. The tray went flying—soup and sandwich parts hitting the floor before Irene did. Terrified, Martha stared, open mouthed, the phone still clutched in her hand, her finger poised to dial when he saw her.
“Please,” she started, “you can’t—”
The man loomed before her, looked down at the unmoving supervisor and then glanced back to Martha. “Get over here,” he ordered.
Shaking, Martha replaced the phone and slowly moved toward him. “Please, son, think of what you’re doing. You—”
“Shut up!” he yelled.
Martha stood some three feet from him. “No, not like this—I have responsibilities, things I must take care of—”
“Don’t worry, old lady, I won’t hurt you,” he said, slowly circling her.
He moved behind her. “Get on your knees!” he ordered.
The terrified woman did as she was told, cowering before him. “Please,” she begged one last time. She started to turn her head when he hit her hard with the butt of the gun. The initial pain wasn’t as bad as she’d anticipated, but she felt herself fall to the floor and then, strangely, felt him pulling her by the wrists, dragging her across the floor. Somehow, she managed to raise her head; her sight wavered as the man towered overhead.
“I’m sorry, lady ... I’m really sorry,” he said and raised his hand, still clutching the gun, smashing it over her head again.
Then, mercifully, everything went suddenly, finally, black.
1
Madam Lu’s had a fast-spreading reputation through the Metropolitan Division as the place to eat. Serving Szechwan, Mandarin, and Cantonese cuisine, it was supposedly well worth battling the lunch-hour traffic to get there. However, Sergeant Rob Howard, LAPD, would have been more than happy to dispel that rumor after his first encounter with the illustrious Madam Lu. Stomach already knotted, he silently vowed never again, counting the minutes until arriving back at the station.
He rubbed his sunglasses on his T-shirt, wiping away an accumulation of dust and body-oils, while waiting for the traffic light to change. Glancing out of his window he saw that the mountains to the north were obscured by a brown haze; a second-stage smog alert with poor air-quality had been predicted. The temperature was a sweltering ninety-five degrees, or so the bank’s clock on the corner boasted, and his stomach again rumbled in protest of its recent mistreatment.
The light turned green and he stepped on the gas, jolting his partner who sat on the opposite side of the car.
“Hey, watch it,” Dan ‘Wally’ Wallace complained, brushing uselessly at the spilled green tea on his pants leg.
“Serves you right,” Howard grumbled. “It’s too hot for guzzling tea.”
“A hot drink makes you sweat, utilizing the body’s own cooling capabilities,” Wally shot back. He finished off the last of his tea, carelessly tossing the Styrofoam cup over his shoulder and onto the back seat.
“This isn’t the city dump,” Howard growled, but his partner wasn’t listening.
Wally glanced at his watch. “We’re late.” Taking hold of the radio microphone he said, “Echo One clear. Over.”
“Roger, Echo One.”
Wally glanced at his partner. “And what’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “You’ve been quiet since halfway through lunch.”
Howard remained silent for a few moments more before asking, “What do you know about salmonella?”
“Sal Monella,” Wally repeated thoughtfully, an impish gleam entering his eyes. “Wasn’t that the fence we busted a few years back? Killed a few of his customers over—”
Howard gave a patient sigh and halted at another red light. “No, salmonella. Food poisoning. How fast does it work on you?”
“Why?”
“Because I think I’m about to lose my lunch.”
“I hope you’re kidding.”
“Well, maybe things aren’t quite that dire—yet,” Howard said, and belched loudly. “Who the hell suggested we try that dump, anyway?”
“Donnelly.” Their police captain.
“Naturally.”
“My shrimp was just fine. In fact, it was delicious. It was the Rolls Royce of seafood!” Wally rolled his eyes in ecstasy. “It was—”
“Shut-up, already!” Howard said, and turned onto National, palming the wheel. “I swear, the whole world’s got it in for me. I gotta have an Alka-Seltzer when we get back or I’m in big trouble.”
“You mean I’m in trouble! My desk faces yours, remember?”
A wry smile tugged at Howard’s lips. “Yeah. Hey, answer that call, will you?”
“What call?”
“The call that just came over the radio. Multiple murder. What’s at the corner of Motor and Pico?”
“Monarch Studios.”
“That’s where we’re going.”
Wally radioed in that they would handle the call and replaced the microphone. “Hey, imagine that—murder in a movie studio.”
“I just hope it ain’t too gruesome,” Howard grumbled, burped, and instantly gunned the engine, hitting the siren while Wally attached the mars light to the roof of the car.
Maneuvering through traffic, Howard hit the cross-street and in a few minutes they were at the studio gate. He waved his identification out the car window and the security guard waved them through with simple directions to follow the blue-painted line on the studio streets. Passing by a western street set, the Cougar screeched to a halt behind a cluster of police black-and-whites and white studio security jeeps. The two detectives scrambled out of the car, Howard again waving his badge, gaining them immediate entrance through the tiled courtyard leading to the Script Department.
Howard’s first impression of the place was that of the Hollywood glamour of old; but on closer inspection, he noticed that the ceramic tiles were chipped and cracked. Plaster patches on the stucco walls couldn’t disguise the years of wear and Southern California’s frequent, though subtle, earthquakes. Ushered inside, he saw that the shabby offices were painted with a sickly yellow enamel; papers, magazines, and half-empty coffee cups lent the feel of a casual work atmosphere, which even the ransacked shelves, scattered scripts, and sheet-covered bodies strewn around the floor like discarded store mannequins could not completely dispel.
He sighed loudly, the greasy eggroll he’d eaten for lunch doing acrobatics in his stomach at the sight of the spattered blood and gore soaking through the sheets. “Gunshot?” he asked no one in particular.
“Yup. It looks like your typical murder/suicide. Can’t tell for sure until we get them on the table.”
Howard recognized the voice behind him and turned to find himself facing Matt Kendall, the Assistant Medical Examiner.
“What’re you doing here already?” Wally asked.
“Would you believe it? I was in the neighborhood when I got the call.”
Matt continued to talk as Wally brushed past, stepping over someone’s scattered lunch on the floor and stopping by one of the covered bodies in the far office.
“Wait a minute, slow down,” Howard heard himself telling Kendall. “What was all that again?”
“Small caliber. The shooter must have taken them by surprise. I’d say two of them died instantly, point blank range. Here, take a look.”
Howard crouched next to his partner.
“See here,” Kendall pointed, pulling the sheet back and exposing the victim’s face and torso. “Point of entry.”
“Just a kid,” Howard murmured, taking in the bloody wound.
The ME pulled the sheet the back farther, exposing the young woman’s face. “Looks like the old lady did it.” He moved to another of the bodies, carefully pulling that sheet away, too. “The gun was in her hand, and the wound is in her temple—blew half her head off. But it doesn’t seem to hold. See the way she’s holding the gun?” He bent over to uncover more of the body but Howard averted his eyes, abruptly rising to his feet and moving somewhat unsteadily into the next room. “What’s the matter with him?” the ME asked mildly.
Wally smiled. “His lunch didn’t agree with him.”
“Are you kidding? Old iron gut?” the ME asked.
Howard elbowed his way through the crowd in the main office and approached a sniffling young woman who was seated in a once-plush executive’s chair in front of an old scarred wooden desk that had probably been in use since the studio opened before talking movies. His stomach rumbled angrily, and he took a deep breath, before pulling out his notebook and speaking. “I’m Detective Howard. Can you tell me what happened here?” The young woman dabbed a tissue under the rim of her glasses, but offered no answer. “What’s your name?” he tried again.
“Hea—Heather. Heather Donohue.”
“Okay, Heather, can you tell me what you saw?”
“Nothing,” she cried. “I didn’t see anything! I keep telling you people—”
“She found the bodies,” a security guard piped up from behind her.
“I came back from lunch early and...Irene and Lizzie were lying on the floor. Martha had Art’s gun—” She broke down sobbing, and Howard placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“Hey, take it easy,” he said softly, then moved away a few steps, motioning the guard to join him. “Did you get anything useful out of her?”
“Afraid not. Seems she just walked in on the bodies. We’ve already asked around the other departments in the building. Looks like everyone else was at lunch when it happened.”
“No witnesses?”
The guard shook his head, frowning.
“Who’s Art?”
“The office manager “
“And how about the victims’ names?” Howard asked, his pencil poised to take notes.
The guard was about to answer when Heather’s voice came softly from across the room. “I’ll tell you who did it—Martha did it, Martha Adams. How could she do it? How could she kill them like that?”
Howard moved to join her, forcing back another belch. “Heather, we need your help, now. Who did she kill?”
The young woman sniffled, and tried to regain her voice. “Lizzie Garcia and Irene Slattery. Here,” she said, shoving the rolodex across the desk. Everything you want to know is in here. Irene always kept things up to date.” She took a shaky breath and continued. “Tomorrow was Lizzie’s birthday. We were gonna surprise her with a cake. She would have been twenty-three.” Again Heather broke into quiet sobs, covering her face with her hands.
“Yeah.” Howard patted her shoulder again and turned to face the guard.
“Is there some kind of first-aid station or something around here?”
The guard nodded.
“Why don’t you take her there? We’ll send someone over to question her in detail later.”
“Come on, Heather,” the older man said gently. The young woman rose, letting the guard lead her out of the office.
Easing into the vacated chair, Howard thumbed through the rolodex. Setting his notebook on the desk, he jotted down the names he’d been given, including Heather’s, for future reference. “Who was this Irene?” he asked no one in particular.
A voice answered from across the room. “She was the supervisor. That’s her desk you’re sitting at.”
Howard looked up to see a tall, dark-haired, serious-looking young man framed by the doorway. “Who are you?”
“Terry Gibson.”
“Do you work here?”
“Today.”
“What do you mean, today? Are you a temp?”
“No, a floater. I work for the studio on a permanent basis, but I work for various people as a temporary everything. Today I’m with Script.”
“Working out of this office?”
He shook his head. “I’ve been typing for a writer across the street. I just wanted to see what was happening here. I thought maybe I could help.
Howard straightened in the chair. “How’d you get past the guards?”
“I told you, I work here. Everyone knows me.”
“Do you feel up to confirming the identities of the bodies? Our other source was pretty upset.”
“Oh, God—they’re all dead?” he asked.
Howard nodded. Gibson’s confidence seemed to waver, but Howard led him from the front office to where the bodies lay. “Matt, let this guy have a look at them.”
Again the Medical Examiner pulled back the sheets on two of the bodies. The young man’s face visibly paled and he turned away, his breaths quickening.
“I—they—”
Howard quickly grabbed Gibson’s arm and led him back to a chair in the other office where he sat him down. “Hey, get him some water, will you?” he asked one of the guards. “Take it easy, kid.”
Gibson sat hunched over, white-faced, looking like he was about to faint.
The guard returned with a paper cup full of water, and he drank it down in one gulp.
“Better?”
Gibson nodded.
“Okay, names?”
“Irene Slattery and uh, Martha...Anders, Arrons. Something like that.”
Howard glanced at his notepad. “Adams,” he corrected, but the young man just stared vacantly ahead. “The other one is Liz Garcia.”
Gibson eyes widened in disbelief. “I can’t believe it...dead. Lizzie’s dead...” he murmured.
“She was a friend of yours?”
Again, Gibson nodded. “We went out a few times back in the winter.” He drew in a shaky breath. “Why—how—could this happen? And Martha, of all people. She didn’t seem the type who’d—”
“Was there a lot of tension in this office? Bad feelings between the workers and the supervisor?” Howard asked.
Gibson shook his head. “No, everyone got along just fine. Well, sometimes Irene was hard on us; you know how supervisors can be. But not enough for something like this to happen.” He closed his eyes for a long moment. “Uh, is it okay if I leave now? I really think I’m going to pass out.”
